Heavy Guilt
She caught me one day during third period. I don’t usually do it at school, but my Spanish class had just had a fiesta, and I couldn’t wait until I got home that day. The guilt and the weight of the food in my stomach was too heavy.

I went to the most remote bathroom in the building, on the basement level near the shop classes. I felt safe there, because most of the students in the shop classes were boys anyway, and they wouldn’t come into the girls’ restroom. As I crept down the dark basement stairs, I knew I was skipping algebra—the first time that I had ever skipped a class—but the need was too great. I had to get it out of me.

Thankfully, the girl’s bathroom was directly outside the stairwell on the basement level. When I pushed the metal-plated basement door open, I heard grinding, sawing and drilling sounds flowing from the shop classroom. I didn’t slow down. I slipped through the bathroom door immediately to my left. For a moment I rested against the closed door of the bathroom, relieved that I made it and a little high that I had skipped a class without being caught. Recognizing my elation, I chided myself. I wouldn’t do this again; this was a one-time thing. It was too risky. Someone could find out. The bathroom was lit by a lone light bulb hanging from the ceiling. There were no mirrors and only one stall. The floor, the walls and the ceiling were an old, dirty off-white latex.

Remembering why I was there, I slipped into the stall, put my finger down my throat and heaved. The initial taste of the bile was like fire; it always was. It burned the lining of my throat and the insides of my cheeks. I again tasted the flavors of the Mexican fiesta. I flushed the toilet once and then repeated the action again to make sure there was nothing left in my stomach. That’s when she found me.

The Secret’s Out
In the midst of dry heaves, I heard the door to the bathroom open. She wouldn’t have seen me if I had closed the stall door before I threw up, but I didn’t. So she saw me kneeling on the dirty floor in front of the toilet.

“Are you all right?” she asked, her voice genuinely concerned.

I grabbed a fistful of toilet paper and wiped my mouth. “I’m fine,” I muttered. I felt my face streak red. I flushed the toilet and fled the stall. She stood in front of the door, watching me. I went to the sink and washed my hands, trying my best to appear nonchalant.

“Are you sure? I could get a nurse.”

“No!” I yelped, looking at her for the first time. “I’m fine.”

She wore gray overalls that were streaked with grease and oil. Her blonde hair was back in a messy bun, and a backwards Georgetown Bulldogs ball cap covered the rest. As I took in her appearance, I knew she took in mine—the designer jeans, the expensive haircut and the flawless makeup. She looked me over slowly, and understanding flowed into her eyes, and she knew. I knew, she knew.

“I really need to get back to class,” I said, gruff and businesslike. “I’m late. Can you move away from the door, please?”

“You know, I can help you. My sister . . .”

“I already said I don’t need any help. Please, move!”

“If you change your mind, my name is Angie. Angie Tenor.”

To make her move, I said, “Thanks, Angie.”

She stepped away from the door.

Suffocating Sympathy
I saw Angie many times after that during the school year, when I had never noticed her before. I spotted her in the hallway, in the cafeteria and in the gym, but nothing changed. I never approached her. But I felt her looking at me in all those places, and when our eyes did meet, hers held suffocating sympathy. I always looked away first.

I did speak to Angie months later, when school was almost out for the year. I was in the hall with my best friend, Dana; we were putting up beach decorations for the end of the year, which was the tradition of the school service club every spring. Dana stood on a ladder, taping fake palm trees high on the wall, and I handed her the paper trees one by one. They fell down at the same rate.

“This tape is just not sticky enough,” Dana complained loudly as another palm tumbled to the floor. “Leave it to Mrs. Hanover to buy cheap tape!”

I laughed. Dana accused everyone of being cheap. The laughter stopped suddenly when I saw Angie. She was wearing her grease-ridden overalls again. Dana looked down from her perch, and seeing that it was no one of interest, returned her attention to the palm trees.

“Hi,” Angie said.

“Hi,” I mumbled.

“Another tree, Anna,” Dana called from her perch, annoyed.

“Oh, right,” I said and handed her one.

“Are you decorating for the service club?”

“Yes.” I couldn’t look at her. She knows, I thought. She knows!

Dana could not tolerate someone stealing my attention away from her. “Anna, do you know this girl?” Dana asked, looking Angie up and down, dismissing her.

Angie’s face flushed, and I became strangely protective of her. “Yes, I know her. Her name is Angie Tenor.” My tone was harsh.

Dana climbed down from the ladder. No one talks back to Dana. “Well, excuse me! I’m going to find Mrs. Hanover and find some real tape. I’ll let you talk with Angie Tenor.” She stormed off down the hall. I felt bad for Mrs. Hanover.

Admitting the Truth
Angie remained. I busied myself with the remaining palm trees. I pretended that I was busily shuffling them, as if they should be in a particular order.

“My sister was bulimic.”

She put it into a word—the thing, the desire, the necessity. I knew the word, knew what it meant, but never admitted it to myself, not even in my thoughts. I refused to respond.

“She hid it from everybody: our mom, her friends, me. We didn’t really know about it until she was in the hospital. She burned away all the lining of her throat. It was months before she fully recovered from the damage and years before she recovered from the disease.”

I dropped the palm trees; they separated in the air and floated to the linoleum floor like autumn leaves. “I don’t know why you’re telling me this.”

“I think you do.”

I couldn’t meet her eyes, “What are you going to do about it?”

“Are you admitting it?” she asked me.

“I’m not admitting anything!”

“Anna, I don’t think you understand how much danger you are in. I have to tell someone.”

“You can’t! They won’t believe you. No one will believe you over me.”

She gave a sad smile. “That’s probably true, but I wished someone had stopped my sister before it was too late.”

“Why do you care? I don’t even know you!” “I just do. You can tell someone, or I will. I’ll give you one day.”

Time to Tell
The next day was the most difficult. I wanted to stay home in bed and tell my parents I was too sick to go to school. They’d believe me; I rarely missed school. But I didn’t have the nerve to lie. It’s funny, I could have the thing inside of me for months and hide it from everyone, but I couldn’t lie to my parents. At school, I was anxious and jittery. I saw Angie in the cafeteria, but I refused to look at her.

In sixth period, I was the office volunteer for the guidance counselor, Miss Gower. She was always very nice to me and usually let me do my homework during the period. That day in Miss Gower’s office, I felt she was watching my every move. She’ll figure it out. She’ll know! I made a show that I was engrossed in my history assignment. I refused to look at her pamphlet display, where I knew there was information about eating disorders. I knew the day was slipping away from me. Angie would tell; I had no doubt.

Secretly, I glanced up at Miss Gower; she was reading a journal article. I could tell her, I thought. It was the first time I had ever considered the option. No, I can’t. What will she think? She’ll be disappointed. My parents will be disappointed. I can’t! But then I thought it again, I could. I could tell he,r and it would be over. I could get help. It’s not too late.

I stared hard at the same page about the Vietnam War as I had this battle in my mind. I thought back to the first time that I purged. It was during Christmas break. My uncle Henry’s first words to me were, “You’re filling out,” and he went to speak to one of my cousins. I just did it the once that night. It was horrible, and I promised myself that it would never happen again. But it did, every time I didn’t have time to exercise or thought I ate too much, until it became habit. It became easier than exercise, easier than eating less.

I glanced at Miss Gower again. I could tell her.

And I did.

Getting Better
Angie never told anyone about my bulimia. I don’t know how she knew that I told Miss Gower. She might have planned never to tell anyone in the first place; I don’t know. All I do know is that she saved me that day.

The school year ended, and over the summer, I got treatment with the help of Miss Gower and my parents. It was the most difficult summer of my life. My parents blamed themselves for putting too much pressure on me, but I knew it was my own pressure on myself that was the root of the problem.

Bulimia is still inside me; I know it’s there, that it’s harmful, but it won’t destroy me. I never told anyone about Angie and what she did for me, and when school started again in the fall, she was gone. Her family moved, the office secretary said. And I never saw her again.

Amanda Flower writes from Tallmadge, Ohio, where she lives with her two cats, Calvy and Puds.

What is bulimia?
Bulimia is a devastating, compulsive disorder often arising from a combination of body-image concerns, stresses in life, anxiety and depression most commonly affecting young women between 12 and 25 years old. Bulimic behavior isn’t limited to binging and purging but may also involve the use of laxatives and “water pills.” Though bulimia is more common than anorexia, it often goes undetected because the behavior is done in secret, which is precisely one of the weapons Satan uses to hold the sufferer in captivity.

Successful treatment of bulimia typically requires a team approach, beginning with the exposure of the secretive behavior to a trusted adult, a visit to your doctor, a counselor, a nutritionist, and in severe cases, hospitalization. By far, the most difficult step is the first one—admitting to yourself there is a problem and telling someone.